


Auld Acquaintance

by Daphne_Fredriksen



Series: Restoration - Book 1, Vickie Kent's Christmas [2]
Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV), Victoria (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, MitHC/Vicbourne, New Year's Eve, Reincarnation, time-travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22037944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daphne_Fredriksen/pseuds/Daphne_Fredriksen
Summary: An AU story,  taking place on New Year's Eve.  John Smith starts ringing in the New Year in New York.... but finds himself at a ball with Queen Victoria!If you enjoy this story, you might like  the preceding story, "Vickie Kent's Christmas."  It lays the groundwork for the relationship between John and Vickie - and it's got an interesting WWII angle as well, if you like that sort of thing!
Relationships: Helen Smith/John Smith, John Smith (Man in the High Castle)/Victoria of the United Kingdom (1819-1901)
Series: Restoration - Book 1, Vickie Kent's Christmas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586779
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	Auld Acquaintance

It had been a glorious dinner at New York’s Reichshof Hotel. Blue Points, Porterhouse, Maine Lobster... even golden pearls of Ossetra malassol caviar. Nothing was too good for this New Years’ Eve dinner with the American Reich’s top leaders.

And plenty of booze, of course. John was pretty well mellowed on the best scotch, and it went without saying that champagne had already begun to be poured.

John partook abstemiously; Helen, more amply. John was in two minds about this. On the one hand, she was quite gay and sociable, schmoozing the room like she always used to. On the other hand, her sociability towards some of the men in the room verged on... flirting.

She looked particularly glamorous tonight. She’d chosen a dress by Cristóbal Balenciaga, the new Reichsmodedesigner from Franco’s Spain, which had just been absorbed by the Reich. The dress itself was red satin with dramatically sculptural hem flounces, perfectly paired with long black gloves.

But the décolletage was daring - too daring. It certainly showed Helen off to perfection. But while in their bedroom he wanted to see all her ample charms displayed, John was far from pleased to see the “admiration” from Goebbels, Mengele, and Eichmann.

Worst of all were the looks from George Gordon*, Obergruppenführer of the Southern District. John watched Gordon chat wittily with her every time they met tonight. These tête-à-têtes were happening far too often.

But now it was time to go on stage in the Reichshof’s Grand Ballroom, for the dropping of the New Year’s Ball. John remembered when this was a _much_ bigger ball, and it dropped in Times Square, with huge crowds in attendance. It had been a grand tradition to go there, even when he was a boy. It was an even bigger thing when he was older and had a pretty girl to kiss the New Year in with!

But Berlin, probably assessing human nature correctly, discouraged the notion of huge clamorous crowds milling about. Instead, they put on this ceremony, with its speeches on the year’s progress in the Reich, and unveiling of plans for ever greater perfection in the year to come. The event was broadcast throughout the GNR.

So addresses had been given, including his terse speech (enthusiastically applauded by Helen), followed by Himmler’s telecast message, “ _Grüße auf dem Volk_.” Reichsmarschall Smith was given the honor of pushing the button to begin the ball’s descent, then stepped back to watch with the rest of them.

John was proud of his gorgeous, glamourous wife, and put his arm around her. He accidentally brushed against the arm of Gordon, standing on the other side of her. The two men pulled away, an almost imperceptible distaste on their faces.

But no matter. Helen leaned her head against him and they watched the ball with its sparkling clear crystals, interspersed with ruby swastikas. It was a good choice to go with something faceted this year, much better that the boring frosted bulbs of previous years. The light glistened off the facets, refracting. John felt entranced, almost as entranced as when he’d been a boy. A small constellation of rainbows glinted and danced around him... he was transported...

*******

The rainbows were brighter now, but slowly they melded into spots of white light. The smell of wax was everywhere... beeswax, as from old-fashioned candles, and something else, redolent of floorwax.

John noticed that the lights resolved themselves into lamps... chandeliers, actually, and very brightly lit. He looked around, and saw several ladies with daring décolletages; each enhanced by lace, flowers, feathers, or jewels, as the wearer’s fancy dictated.

A particularly dignified woman in a dark chignon came up to him, a small tiara on her head, and the swoop of her pink gown embellished with a small knot of white orchids.

“Thank you for the flowers, Lord M; they’re beautiful.”

“Then they do you justice, Ma’am.” Where did _that_ speech come from? No matter - the first notes of a waltz sounded and he found himself with her in his arms.

He recognized her, of course – it was Vickie Kent, his onetime English love. So many years ago, when he’d still been with the U.S. Army, he’d been stationed in a small village in the North of England. He wasn’t with Helen then, and he’d been engaged to Vickie. But as Europe fell, they too broke apart. John still thought of her at times... late at night, or, especially, when getting news from Greater Nationalist England.

He saw (thankfully) that he was no longer wearing his Schutzstaffel uniform. He appeared to be wearing a coat and weskit like the other men. His weskit was dark green, and he guessed the cravat was the same, as Vickie – Victoria – told him it brought out his eyes.

For now he knew he was with Queen Victoria. Ironic as that was; Vickie Kent had often talked of Victoria and Victorian times during their love affair. She had also talked a lot about William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne - who, inexplicably, he was now considered to be.

He himself felt he was still John; but changing, somehow. Part of him was his younger self: idealistic and in love. (The part that was still Reichsmarschall decided to later ask Mengele or Abendsen about this strange travel.*) But overall he was shifting; attuning himself to the greater influence of that very Lord M who he was becoming...

The waltz continued – was it Strauss or was it Schubert? - and he felt himself under its spell. They turned, and as they spun, suddenly everything else went away. His present life was past... there was just this dance, and the young Queen in his arms.

A steward in a powdered wig came with a tray of champagne. He drank happily, filled with wonder at the happy room, the laughter and wit flowing freely.

The Queen took hers, and imbibed rather quickly. A habit of hers, to drink and eat hastily... he’d mock-chided her for this before. But only in jest. How could anyone be mean to her dear Majesty? - she was so candid, so fresh and artless. Anyone who didn’t love her was a fool.

As expected, she hiccupped slightly, and Lord M remembered that champagne was a bit of weakness with her. Gently, he waltzed her toward the edge of the room, close to a balcony. Her eyes were huge - too huge for as brightly as the ballroom was lit.

The waltz stopped. Lord M wondered why they didn’t start in on the next one, but the Musicmaster stood looking at a case clock that had started to chime. Of course, it was chiming to midnight. The clock finished striking and the musicians began the patriotic strains. Lord M stepped back respectfully and raised his glass to Her Majesty. Since he was, after all, Prime Minister, it was proper for him to start:

_“God save our gracious Queen,_  
_Long live our noble Queen,_  
_God save the Queen;”_

The rest of the room joined in:

_“Send her victorious,_  
_Happy and glorious,_  
_Long to reign over us,_  
_God save the Queen.”_

*******

“Ma’am, I’m finding that a bit of air might do me good; might I be honored to have you join me?”

“Of course, Lord M...” She took his arm gladly.

They stood silently in the chilly air. At this moment, after the overheated room, the cool air felt wonderful.

The rest of the room had gone back to dancing – country dances and reels, after the formal waltzes. A particular melody stood out. “That tune!” he said.

“Yes, a Scots folk dance,” said the Queen. “Don’t you remember it from last year, when the Duke of Sutherland brought a Highland Troupe to entertain us?”

“I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it used to be, Ma’am... especially if it isn’t Mozart. But I believe I have heard that tune in a slower tempo, with ‘Auld Lang Syne’ set to it.”

“The Burns poem? I’ve heard talk at court that the Scots recite and sing Burns at Hogmanay. I’ve never heard that poem sung, however.”

“I _do_ remember hearing it. In fact, I vaguely seem to remember singing it myself, one or two times.”

Lord M cleared his throat and softly sang to Her Majesty.

“What a charming song! – remembering the old whilst looking forward to the new. I do hope the Scottish custom spreads...”

“Indeed, Ma’am! After all, in our best moments, what are we doing but making memories to live upon? Happiness to be recollected in tranquility.”

They were standing very close, and inside the ballroom, a slow waltz started. He did not want to go in, but neither did he want the Queen to catch cold.

“Do we need to go inside, Your Majesty?”

“No, I rather like the brisk air. That is, if you’re not getting chilled...”

But William had never felt warmer.

The waltz began and they found themselves in each other’s arms. He held her tightly, too tight for discretion, and he knew it. Yet he couldn’t bear not to – and he enjoyed how she clung to him.

Cautiously, their lips touched. Something was coming over him – highly improper, perhaps even treasonous. Perhaps some bolder self was asserting itself, overcoming his courtier’s nature. But as they kissed, slowly but steadily more passionately, everything seemed right. Her hands moved along his shoulders and back, thrilling him in every nerve, and unbidden, his hands grazed lightly over her, feeling gently. They were whirling, twirling, suspended somewhere between a dance and a lover’s embrace.

This was all wrong, undoubtedly. But as long as they spun, surely nothing else would interfere with this moment. They could be like this forever...

They broke the kiss, and he buried his lips in her hair, his fingertips tracing patterns on her smooth, bare shoulders. She pressed against him; oh, god, even with the bulk of his frockcoat and the stiff skirt of her gown, he could feel the warmth of her body. When they would marry, in some future time, he would feel all of her and she all of him! And then nothing would separate them ever again!

He took a breath - and a small step back. Victoria looked at him glowingly, assuming he was merely recovering from dancing (and kissing). But no, he gasped because he felt unsettled. He knew that it was impossible for him, as her Prime Minister, to ever marry the Queen. And yet... and yet... he had a certitude that her heart and mind and body were meant for him and vice versa. That he would know her completely, as she would completely know him.

He took yet another step back, viewing himself oddly. He idly wondered if Lord M had brought about the Queen’s sexual awakening not only in thoughts and awareness, but in deed and in fact. _Was_ Lord M illicitly sleeping with Her Majesty? Had he already bedded her? Or was he to bed her tonight? (And why did he refer to himself in the third person?) Too much champagne! He’d drunk too much champagne, even for himself, a man accustomed to drink! He had a splitting headache... and a rum sense of disjointedness.

Victoria walked to the balustrade. “Look at the stars, Lord M! They look like crystal in the Winter’s air, do they not?”

“They do, Ma’am! Brilliant white crystals... and a few red ones?...”

He felt himself swaying and she caught him in her arms. “Lord M, are you well? You seem not quite yourself...”

“Ma’am, forgive me, I feel distinctly _un_ well...” She helped him into the ballroom and then they slipped into a corridor. A red-coated steward with a dour face was with her, and he found himself saying “Dover House...”

He was seated on something leathery and looked into Victoria’s eyes. The blue of them was so bewitching. Then the blue turned darker - midnight blue - and the gleams in them were stars. Then, even the stars went dark...

*******

The darkness must have been temporary, he thought – at any rate, it had lifted. He stared uncomprehendingly at the bright crystals of a large lighted sphere, resting on a pillar.

He looked around to get his bearings. He was sitting alone at a table, a few glasses of champagne in front of him, and people around him singing off-key.

_“We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet/For the sake of auld lang syne...”_

What happened? Where had he been? Some consciousness of his situation rushed back to him. He looked at the lighted sphere, the New Years’ Ball, and realized he never actually saw it drop to mark the start of the year.

A red-haired woman in a satin dress came rushing up to him. “John! John, dear, are you all right?”

“Mmmmhhh...” He could barely speak - though oddly, he had a vague recollection of wanting to talk to Hawthorne Abendsen about some things...

His fuzziness was clearing. Finally, he recognized his beautiful Helen, sitting beside him and reaching for his hand. A tall dark-haired man, who had obviously been her dancing partner just moments before, came up to the table. That piece-of-work, George Gordon.

“I hope you’re better, Reichsmarschall.” The tight, sneering look on the Obergruppenführer’s face suggested otherwise . “You’d no sooner started the ball’s descent than you started swaying! So we sat you down here...”

“Hel-, Helen, did you dance with him?” asked John. His voice was raw, hoarse as if he’d stood all night in the cold. Tears started in his eyes...

“Why... ye-e-es. John, _are_ you all right? I’d just assumed you’d drunk a bit too much - and so when Guy Lombardo and His Loyal Reichsmen started to play...”

“...you made sure to oblige our old friend George. Tell me, Helen – has he collected the first kiss of the New Year, too?”

“John!” She whispered, but the shock was palpable. Even Gordon, that cad, looked uncomfortable and walked away from the table. John noticed that in no time at all he had picked out an expensive-looking blonde and started foxtrotting with her.

Helen looked at him with worry. “Darling,” she said, “It’s the New Year. I know we’ve had... difficulties in the past, but... let’s put them behind us.”

He took her hands in his tenderly - and in truth, he was feeling weak. Holding onto her made him feel like at least he wasn’t losing his mind.

“I’m sorry. I just... I can’t imagine life without you...”

They kissed. But her lips, though plush and giving, seemed somehow cold to him. He held her and tried not to think too much. But thoughts came crowding in all the same.

 _Could_ “auld acquaintance be forgot”? He imagined Helen and Gordon dancing. They’d been lovers once. A village in Britain swam across his mind; that had been _his_ auld acquaintance. The song was lying - it _should_ be forgot! A tear started down his face, unbidden; Helen wiped it away quickly.

“I’m sorry, Helen. It’s... not like me to be acting like this.”

She squeezed his hand warmly. “I know, Dear; usually you have to chide me for drinking too much champagne. I just hope you’re not coming down with a cold...”

He smiled weakly. “Oh, I don’t think I am. But all the same, I think we’d better get home. Please get Metzger over here... I want him to make our apologies...”

Helen called the aide over, telling him to deliver John’s message to the Nazi dignitaries. And then, she called a taxi for her husband.

**Author's Note:**

> *Yes, Gordon, is George Gordon, Lord Byron, reincarnated.
> 
> *John's assumption of alt-world travel is reasonable, given his knowledge of the films and of Die Nebenwelt. It is, however, a red herring; he's not seeing an alt-world, but a previous life.


End file.
